No snow? No problem

Christmas 2006: we arrived in La Rosiere 1850 with our young offspring - three- and five-year-old budding skiers - expecting a classic wintry scene of abundant snow on the mountains, a thick white carpet in the resort and fir trees with snow-laden branches.

Whether it was global warming or just freak weather, what we found in this 'snow-sure' resort high above the Tarentaise Valley was a desolate landscape of muddy grass punctuated by large patches of grey ice and the odd blotch of dirty snow.

The thirtysomething receptionist at the tourist board volunteered that it was her first ever Christmas without snow, and that mild, dry conditions were forecast well into the New Year. Only one in three pistes was open, with a meagre 50cm of snow at 2,000m. We checked in, wondering what we would find to occupy ourselves for a week.

Next morning on the nursery slopes, the cannons were working overtime blasting out a stream of tiny, icy particles that bit into every inch of exposed flesh. The piste bashers had been at work all night, shovelling every last flake into a single strip in a valiant attempt to keep lessons running and create a half-decent route from top to bottom.

Resort closure was rumoured, but we went up on the chairlift to survey the warnings of faible enneigement and limited choice of pistes. A group of petrified skiers stood at the top of a red run, plucking up courage. Others had started to make their descent and one had fallen, setting off a chain reaction of icy tumbles. Nervously, we picked our route through an obstacle course of slush, boulders and gritty patches of mud-flattened grass, testing our technique and hearing the rasp of metal on gravel.

The biggest challenge lay ahead: getting back to the resort. With so many closures, our piste map was redundant. Skiing quickly with an eye on the clock, we kept missing our route. The long, narrow road back to La Rosiere was in poor condition. And then the run came to an abrupt end: piste fermee. Tired, battered and bruised, we were stranded, forced off-piste, uninsured. For a terrifying hour, we side-slipped, snow-ploughed round boulders and skidded on ice down the mountain until the lights of the resort appeared in the gloom.

We awoke to more glorious blue skies and not a snow cloud in sight. When hikers appeared on the pistes, I decided enough was enough, packed away the skis and signed up for a day out snow-shoeing. To be honest, after the previous hard day's skiing, donning raquettes de neige was a welcome relief. My comfortable, soft walking boots clipped at the front into light contraptions like tennis racquets with metal crampons underneath. They bore little resemblance to the old wooden versions which decorate the walls of Alpine chalets and bars.

It took just minutes to get used to the feel of the shoes, but there were techniques to learn - how to hold our poles for maximum leverage, pole vault across ditches and streams, frog-leap from high ledges, traverse, use our crampons to walk safely on ice, and run down a steep slope with large, gliding steps.

Our guide, Jean-Luc, said that at full snow-shoeing speed you burn 600 calories an hour, comfortably justifying a few calorie-laden raclettes and fondues. It's superb cardiovascular exercise, and uses almost every muscle in the body.

Even so, snow-shoeing is not meant to be as relentless as skiing. You're encouraged to stop, savour the silence, smell the pine forest and take in the pristine, natural beauty of your surroundings. Every few hundred metres there was a perfect excuse to take a break - a stunning view of snow-capped peaks, a natural ice sculpture dripping from a rock, an eagle flying over the valley below, some roe deer tracks to examine, a half-frozen brook offering a ready-chilled drink, and wild mountain cranberries to pick and eat for a quick fix of vitamin C.

Regular breaks allowed us to get to know each other. Jean-Luc, born and bred in the Alps, was a mine of facts, figures and folklore; his ancestors had virtually built the resort and he seemed to know every inch of the mountain by heart. We learnt about avalanche prediction and how to survive one by 'swimming' up through the snow. We sighted a marmot burrow, where the whole family would sleep through the winter, more than two metres underground, their hearts beating only twice a minute.

As we completed our descent through the forest and into the valley, the first stars were appearing against a backdrop of royal blue above the black silhouette of the mountains. Reflected back off the snow, moonlight cast a silvery glow on our surroundings, and Jean-Luc offered us a farewell swig from a bottle containing a dead viper. The creature, he explained, spits its venom to make 'viperine', an evil-tasting liquor deemed by mountain shepherds to boost the immune system. Thanks to the lack of snow, I'd had one of the most memorable days I've ever spent in the mountains.

Meanwhile, our children seemed oblivious to the poor conditions, enjoying a full week of beginner ski lessons on artificial snow, followed by a programme of in- and outdoor 'Snow Club' activities and a session on an indoor climbing wall. Icy bum-boarding and snowball fights were more joyous than ever in the unseasonably warm sunshine, without the need for those extra layers of clothing usually essential in December.

My husband, Neil, and some dads from our chalet whiled away their time on the nursery slopes, teaching themselves to ski backwards like the instructors in anticipation of family skiing with our young children at the end of the week.

In truth, La Rosiere, a charming, small, traditional village, has fewer facilities for non-skiers than bigger resorts. There is a small, friendly spa with swimming, sauna, massage and fitness classes, but no ice rink, no bowling, and just a handful of shops to browse in the village.

But the funny thing was that, despite our misadventures on the slopes, Neil and I found the lack of snow strangely liberating. No longer were we plagued by feelings of guilt that if we weren't skiing all day every day we would be wasting our ski passes.

Skiing holidays with young children can be a less-than-relaxing experience, with early morning alarm calls and huge amounts of energy expended in shoving small limbs into bulky kit, arguing about wearing or not wearing helmets, running around looking for lost gloves, goggles and the like.

Lack of snow gave us a perfect excuse to chill out with long, lazy, alcoholic lunches in village restaurants and even the odd siesta. We crawled the local cafes, feeling a tad unfashionable in last year's ski gear next to the locals in their oh-so-trendy khaki and lime green. We sought out the best terraces and soaked up the sunshine, breathing in the crisp Alpine air and even reading a novel or two over copious quantities of cafe au lait and chocolat chaud. After all, isn't that what holidays are about?